Chapter 2 - THE MESSAGES I NEVER SENT
Auberon showed me the screenshots the next morning.
Not the physical phone.
Police had that.
His phone.
My name at the top.
My number.
Day One, 7:48 p.m.
ME:
Mom and I had a huge fight. I need space.
Auberon:
Are you okay?
ME:
Yes.
Auberon:
Call me.
ME:
I don’t want to talk.
That sounded like me.
Not perfectly.
Enough.
I hated phone calls during conflict.
Fenella knew that.
Auberon had called anyway.
No answer.
Then:
ME:
I’m staying somewhere else tonight.
Auberon:
Where?
ME:
With Maris.
My college friend.
She lived forty minutes away.
Auberon knew her.
Then:
Auberon:
Can I call Maris?
ME:
Please don’t make this controlling.
My stomach turned.
That sentence—
I had said versions of it before.
Not exactly.
But Fenella had heard us argue once when I told Auberon:
“Giving me space is not the same as ignoring me, and checking every ten minutes is controlling.”
She remembered.
Day Two.
Auberon:
Morning. Are you safe?
ME:
Yes.
Auberon:
Baby okay?
ME:
Fine.
Auberon:
Please let me hear your voice.
ME:
Not ready.
Then:
ME:
I need to think about whether I can live with your mother this involved in our marriage.
True concern.
Fake message.
Day Three.
Auberon:
I can leave the site early.
ME:
Don’t.
Auberon:
Clotilde.
ME:
You always choose work until I’m upset and then you make a grand gesture. Finish the job.
That sentence hurt because it was plausible.
I had accused him of that six months earlier.
During a different argument.
Fenella knew because Auberon had vented to her.
Day Four.
ME:
I may stay away until you get home. Don’t send Mom after me.
That was almost clever.
It positioned Fenella as someone I was avoiding rather than the person holding me.
Auberon replied:
I won’t. I love you. Please eat and take vitamins.
I put the phone down.
My hands shook.
He sat beside the hospital bed.
“I should have known.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“You don’t text like that.”
“I do.”
“Not ‘please don’t make this controlling.’”
“I might.”
He closed his eyes.
“I called Maris.”
“When?”
“Second day.”
My heart jumped.
“She said you weren’t there?”
“She didn’t answer.”
Maris had been on a cruise.
Her voicemail said she was unavailable with limited service.
Fenella knew?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Then:
“I called Mom.”
“What did she say?”
Auberon looked sick.
“That she had seen you pack a bag.”
I stared.
“She told me you left after you two argued.”
There.
Then:
“She said she didn’t know where you went.”
“Did you ask her to check the house?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“That your car was gone.”
My car had been in the garage the entire time?
No.
Police later confirmed it was parked two streets away in a visitor lot.
Someone moved it.
Fenella had my keys.
Auberon said:
“I almost called police on Day Two.”
My throat tightened.
“Why didn’t you?”
“The messages.”
I looked at the screenshots.
Then at him.
He continued:
“You were telling me not to come. You were angry. You’ve asked for space before.”
Not five days.
He knew.
I knew.
Still.
Then:
“On Day Four I told my supervisor I might leave.”
“The message stopped you.”
“Yes.”
Fake me had written:
If you abandon another project because of family drama, don’t blame me when you lose your job.
I pressed my lips together.
That one sounded like Fenella.
Not me.
Auberon knew that now.
Too late.
Then:
“Why did you come back when you did?”
“Bridge inspection finished early because the storm shut down the site.”
Three hours earlier than planned.
If the weather had held, he would have arrived that evening.
What had Fenella planned to do in those three hours?
No answer yet.
Then the detective visited.
He confirmed:
My phone was found in the plastic tote behind the chairs.
Powered on.
Connected to a portable battery pack.
My purse.
Wallet.
Keys.
Prenatal folder.
One change of clothes.
And a spiral notebook belonging to Fenella.
No one had interpreted the notebook formally yet.
They were obtaining search authority and forensic review.
Then:
“Did Fenella know your phone passcode?”
I thought.
“Yes.”
A month earlier I asked her to answer a delivery driver while I was in the shower.
I told her the code.
“Did you change it afterward?”
“No.”
There.
Another ordinary decision.
Then:
“Did she know Maris was unavailable?”
I remembered.
At Sunday dinner, Maris’s cruise came up.
I showed photos she had sent.
Fenella was sitting at the table.
Yes.
She knew.
The detective nodded.
“Thank you.”
Then:
“Did you ever authorize Fenella to send messages from your phone?”
“No.”
“Move your vehicle?”
“No.”
“Hold your keys?”
“No.”
“Confine you?”
“No.”
Simple.
The case was becoming more precise.
May you like
Not a disappearance.
A manufactured one.
